The Science of Slushie Removal
by Euphro
Summary: What better way to start a weekend than with a slushie facial? A quick little one-shot taking into account all episodes aired as well as some spoilers regarding upcoming episodes. This is written primarily focusing on Artie's perspective.


A/N: I never had any intention of _writing _anything to post here, but there we are. Maggie and Jamie have buttered my ego into it.

Disclaimer: It's probably best to have a basic idea of Glee. Additionally, I've taken some spoilers from 1 x 15 "The Power of Madonna" into account and made light references. So I'd better post it now before everything changes. Thanks for reading!

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In case you have not had the pleasure of being slushied, allow me to explain. It sticks to your hair, squeezes into every crevice of your skin and jewelry, potentially stains your clothing, drops your body temperature a good ten degrees instantly, irritates your eyes, turns all books, notebooks, and papers into slop (or the equivalent of slop), and just makes you downright sticky. And if you're unlucky enough to be in a wheelchair, well, it'll get all over that too.

Still, there are worse things. It used to bother Artie a whole lot more when it first started happening. His white shirts would take on blotches of pink or blue or purple, depending on the flavor of the day. He started bringing an extra change of clothes to stuff into his locker, for as much good as that would do, because he had the same chair, the same glasses, the same everything. Sometimes when it was really bad, he'd try to rush right into the bathroom at home after school and scrub his skin raw as he tried to get it all out. (He never could.) As if his mother didn't notice, when she washed his clothing or the beach towels he used to clean himself off. She bought his explanation of "I got a little carried away with my drink" a total of three times, until she remembered that a.) he was not particularly keen on slushie beverages, b.) it somehow ended up in his hair, and c.) he disliked grape flavoring.

So eventually the good Mrs. Abrams, concerned for her son, pressed Mr. Abrams to address the situation. Artie wasn't very popular and didn't often hang out with friends or bring them home after school, or get invited anywhere, for that matter. And it didn't seem likely that they would accept the "my friends were playing a practical joke on me" excuse. So he told them the truth, and he tried not to show how much it bothered him. There was mention of talking to the school counselor, the principal, or parents of students. Each answer was met with refusal on Artie's part. He didn't want to make trouble. He didn't want his parents finding out about the other things, like the flagpole and the dumpster. Slushies, for as bad as they could be, weren't so terrible.

Kids are so mean these days, Mrs. Abrams had said.

Artie shrugged. He tried to be more thoughtful. He routinely carried about waterproof attire. He was meticulous about cleaning his chair, because he had so few and he wasn't about to force his parents to get him another one.

So much of it had to do with the fact that he still disliked his chair. When he entered high school, he knew there would be a lot of changes. But he also knew he could depend upon being one of the only wheelchair kids. It meant people looked at you differently because you stood out (no pun officially intended). He didn't want to, but of course he did. The slushies were new. Sometimes he could almost see how kids like him could lash out at school bullies.

She made things different, though. Oddly, he hadn't noticed her so much until he saw the telltale signs. Sometimes she sported the same stains. Her beautiful hair glistened differently when it was coated with syrup. She didn't complain. She seemed a bit weird, but after they'd gotten thrown into a dumpster together, they wondered if maybe they should hang out a little more often, or at least at school.

She did little things other people wouldn't do. She was just there. It's different when you know there's someone there who will help you out.

She's there when he gets slushied. What a way to start a weekend. He only half-heartedly protests as she drags him into the girl's bathroom and dips his head back into the sink as she runs water through his hair with care. She jokes that if he really wanted blue hair, he should have just gone to her, even as she carefully sifts her fingers through his hair. She lets him do his glasses while she gently wipes at the back of his neck. She even pushes her hand down his back (it's only recently that she's started doing this, of course), and when he tells her it won't make that much difference because of his syrupy shirt, she smirks and tells him she knows; she just wanted to do it anyway.

It's not at all uncommon for her to head over to his house on a Friday afternoon. His house is closer, after all, and she seems to find it more comfortable. He does as well; he knows that every single room is set up in such a way so that it's convenient for him. The spatial layout is purposeful. All doorways are wider than normal. Tables are set at a mindful height. The sofa and armchairs are thoughtfully shaped and firm but so comfy. They often hang out to watch movies or play games.

When she gets slushied, she cleans herself off or, of late, their other friends help her. But it's never really enough. There's nothing like a warm shower, because the chill of the slushie doesn't immediately go away, and the syrup gets everywhere. As she grew more comfortable around his house, she began to ask if she could take post-slushie showers there too. It's something about the way she emerges from the bathroom, either in a change of clothes she brought or one he's happy to provide, smelling like whatever syrup she encountered and changing the scent he normally associates with his shampoo, that does something to his stomach. (Of late she's taken to pulling on one of his shirts and a pair of his boxers. He's sure she's trying to kill him, and her smile doesn't contradict it.) He thinks she looks her best then. Clean, natural, beautiful. He doesn't tell her that. He knows better now.

This time he's the one who has to take the shower, and she's comfortable being in his house while he does so. He switches chairs, and he watches her wheel out the original one with such determination that he knows she's about to clean the damn thing herself. And that's not easy, for the record. You can't just take it outside and hose it off. He doesn't know what she does to it, but she cleans it better than he ever could.

He's glad it didn't happen to her this time. He's out of the bathroom as soon as possible, which isn't so soon, but she's patient. The television is on but the volume is low and the room is empty, and laughter erupts from the kitchen.

"Your mother invited me to dinner," she tells him when he joins them.

Mrs. Abrams notices the difference in the shy girl who was never particularly impolite: she just needed some friendly nudging before she got the run of the house and, in particular, of her son's heart. Now she always greets Artie's family when they get in. She turns her attention away from the television or computer and talks to them. She fits in so well. The house seemed colder without her those long months, but now Mrs. Abrams suspects things are much better.

They play a few video games with his parents after dinner, and then they watch a movie. She's leaning against him with his arm around her shoulders. And when he looks at her, and she smiles back at him, he knows she sees him differently than she does anyone else, but it's something altogether pleasant. Wonderful, even.

She gives him a knowing look before sliding to the other side of the couch and beckoning to him. He crawls over and settles with his head and arm in her lap. Sometimes he can't believe it. He'll look back at all they've been through and wonder why she was always there. It wasn't always that way. He hadn't wanted her to see the vindictive side that he refused to show anyone else, let alone admit to having. As vulnerable as he sometimes feels every day, it's nothing compared to what she's seen. Because she knows the truth.

When the lights are out and she doesn't want to go home (but they can't move to his room because then she knows she should really be heading home, so they stay on the couch), she curls up next to him.

"What would happen if we slushied them back?" she asks.

"I don't know." He's kind of amused at the thought. "They'd probably find something else to do. Something about not being able to dismantle the master's house with the master's tools."

"Think about it, though. We could end slushie facials forever."

She laughs and burrows her face into his neck, and he sighs, because that is possibly the most perfect feeling ever after a slushie day. "Maybe they'll make black licorice ones. They have every other flavor."

"Then you wouldn't like black licorice anymore," she sensibly points out. Then she wrinkles her nose. "Besides, black licorice is disgusting."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"Is not."

The wrestling begins and ends in under five minutes. She's on her back, holding his hands off as he leans over her. He folds his fingers around hers, and she squeezes them. They share a look.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

I know. It's okay. But don't do it again.

It's when it's dark like this, and they switch positions and she climbs on top of him and laces her legs around his, that he knows why he was wrong. She feels the same in his arms, with her head on his shoulder and her chest rising and falling on top of his. That's all he wants.

Of course, it would be nice if she liked black licorice too, but at least they haven't made that into a slushie flavor. Yet.


End file.
